PinoyWrimos

We Move

A ghost gravitates naturally toward its maker. Whether it is the wisp of a past happiness or the fullest form of a present crime, a memory is a living thing. It appears, moreover, in manner and form that is most familiar to its creator. Say, if you had killed your husband in a fit of jealousy, an image of your husband would appear before you, newly slain and bloodied and urging you to bring yourself to justice.

That is why I said, human, that you may have seen your ghosts – for a ghost, any sort of ghost in your haunted houses or walking headless down your hallway, or breathing cold words into your unhearing ear – any ghost is of the making of your memories. We are your thoughts personified, your emotions brought to life.

And on that day, after the earth shook, we began to walk – to gravitate to our centers, if you will. Hence, the wailing, the weeping, the whining from midnight until infinity – and hence, the pain that would live upon humankind like a plague, save that this one could never be removed.

I first came to Isabelle when she was walking through the streets -

Ah, allow me to let my princess tell her tale. I shall try to see it from her eyes, though I cannot speak in her language, for she is what some call a wordsmith. She only feeds me; I cannot but drink from her heart.

On that Night

Isabelle was not asleep, but thinking. She had never lost her sense of daydreaming, of staying awake and staring at the patterns on her ceiling and thinking. Her mother once chided her for staying up so late: no wonder she hadn’t grown taller, if she had done nothing but think! No man wanted a thinking woman! He wanted a pretty girl – and then, only after she had presented herself as a goddess, only then could she show that she was thinking. But before all that, she had to be exceptionally wonderful to his eye, for men responded to that stimulus of feminine perfection, that beautiful eye, those red, pouting lips that seemed swollen with a thousand kisses, those blushed cheeks that were both the outward signs of modesty and teasing.

And that was what Isabelle was thinking about, as she lay herself down to try to sleep. It was not yet midnight, but she was tired from studying sociology – she wasn’t a sociologist, besides. She had started off as a scientist, then as a writer, and now, she was putting the two together – she was going to get her PhD, but as things stood, she was going to bear a good deal of suffering first before anything happened. So she decided to weigh the philosophy of a woman being herself versus a woman – well, not being herself.

It was easier than – what was it, social realism? Isabelle chuckled at the thought. She didn’t hate sociology; she just didn’t like reading for too long. Now, she decided to take a break, feed her mind with other things, feed her inner ghost with resentment – because here it was…

Isabelle was always herself. She despised having to put on a mask for a man to like her, resented being told that she was too available. For the love of all things sensible, Isabelle, virgin, too available? She fed her inner ghost slowly, but slept through her thoughts, so that she broke the food chain in its wake.

Isabelle, on the tenth floor of her dormitory, felt the tremors, but ignored them. She was, after all, used to feeling her bed shaking every time she sank into sleep.

“Or I am being hounded by demons,” she joked to herself that night. How dare she, to speak so carelessly!

And then, she felt her stomach lurch, as though it were ready to fly out of her mouth. She woke up very slowly, laughed to herself as half her brain rose gradually out of her dreams; and then gasped, as she saw the world through her window. It fell, or rose, or sank – she did not quite remember – she simply saw part of the ground rise, then fall, then shiver.

For an hour, she stared at her window, one hand on her pillow, another on the shelf next to her bed. As though it could hold her, keep her on her mattress, and not send her hurtling through what was fast becoming an abyss of darkness and stars – but she held on, miraculously.

The first thing Isabelle thought about was her family, back home in the archipelago in the Pacific.

And then she thought about Alvarez.

And then she thought about those little things that suddenly pop into your head when things go wrong. She saw her microwave oven slipping, and thought that she was hungry and wanted oatmeal – but didn’t have any milk – but couldn’t drink milk because she had a bit of a cold – and couldn’t go to a party because the cold was getting worse – but why party in this sort of weather?

And then she remembered that it had nothing to do with the weather. The sky was falling, then the earth, then the sky.

Then the whole world shivered, as though it felt the cold.

She watched the window, transfixed, and frozen onto her bed. The glass broke from the force, cracking, letting in a blast of autumn wind. She trembled, she knew, but she still did not move.

She heard herself mouth a prayer. Isabelle prayed a lot; she was short of screaming the prayer out now, screaming out every name of every saint she knew; sometimes screaming names of saints that didn’t even exist. There was a church nearby; she could hear its bells tolling from the impact. She wondered if her favorite priest was there, if he would hear her confession if she thought that she would die.

The earth shivered for a long, long time. From far away, glass broke, windows shattered, and something heavy broke into a thousand pieces. Car alarms were going off. The earth seemed to gasp, sigh, and then stop, echoing the final “Amen” that Isabelle shouted out.

She kept on murmuring her prayers, as though someone had told her to be quiet. Some angel, some saint was prayed to; inside, she doubted her powers, thinking that all would be lost, no matter what prayer she said. But she fought, the warrior Isabelle; even while she lay clasped in a thousand fears, she did not waver.

When the earth had quieted, Isabelle breathed again – she was dizzy, from the murmuring, the praying, the forgetfulness to fill her lungs with air. She froze within; the air she drew was bitingly cold.

“Mama Mary,” she heard herself make the high-pitched whisper, “Mama Mary, where are you?”

She did not expect an answer, but she swallowed nevertheless – her imagination was running wild again, and she expected to hear snarls, sneers, demons waiting to feast on her, hounds waiting to eat her alive. She did not know where the thoughts were coming from, but in the darkness, you cannot help thinking of demons and hounds – in the darkness, you humans are all alike.

Isabelle strained to see, imagined seeing nebulous shapes all around her room, thought she saw something white and flimsy flitting by her window. She shook her head, saw it once again, but blinked and returned her eyes to darkness.

She could see the world through the cracked glass; gray clouds, a few stars, some light playing on the cracks like little bolts of lightning. She could not move – she stared – feeling her face numb with the cold.

And then she thought, “I am alive – and I am going to freeze to death – and – I see the sky.”

She looked up, and saw that there was no roof above her. Limbs automatic, Isabelle stood up, stepped onto her floor, and nearly slid until she held on to her bed again.

The dormitory had collapsed, but the uppermost floors, from the eleventh to the thirteen, had slid off, like a layer of cake, from the building. Isabelle remembered hearing a crash, and screams; something in her mind had shut off the sound; something in her body had forced her to stare at the window instead. But she knew that there were at least a hundred people in the rooms above; they were somewhere on campus now, perhaps still in their beds, perhaps tossed onto the street, perhaps hanging in some trees.

Isabelle hated her imagination. She hated how her mind could blind her eyes; how her mind could see things, make up tales, speculate – she bit her thoughts between her teeth.

“Stop it,” she ordered herself.

She could hear the screams, at the back of her memory – but she sensed that something was wrong with her head.

“What a thought – wrong with my head!” the little voice in her brain tittered.

Isabelle looked up, and saw the autumn sky and its stars. She trembled, shook – tried to focus her eyes – saw fragments of stone, saw iron bars exposed, saw sparks of electricity lighting up the night for a moment.

And she heard them – the screams – getting louder – and louder – and louder – shriller – more painful – as though all of humanity had been pressed beneath fire and ice and made to suffer at the beginning of what would be eternity.

Isabelle sat down slowly again, and tried, very, very hard not to listen. Beneath her, she could hear rumbling, the sound of stones grinding against each other, the sound of electricity running through water and then dying, the sound of even more screams.

She bent over and vomited on her floor. She took deep breaths, tried not to tremble; vomited again, and then wept.

On that Noon

And while Isabelle was sleeping soundly in her bed, Alvarez, on the other side of the planet, was sleeping as well. He made it a habit, the young man, to stay awake in the evenings so that he could keep Isabelle company as she studied and worked in a time zone twelve hours away from his. So he slept, far sounder than the lurking sociologist Isabelle, who was waking up in between dreams and trying not to think.

Alvarez, on the first floor of his house, slept through the tremors. He lived near the mountains, but he did not hear them recede, did not feel the ground trembling beneath him as it settled onto the hollow caverns beneath. Unlike Isabelle, Alvarez was not in the habit of thinking before sleeping. He slept only when he was “brain dead,” as he put it; only when he was close to fainting and dropping and spewing out his gray matter from his ears.

Halfway through that hour, he felt the shivering earth – and he sat up in bed.

His first thought was a neighborhood dog – the barking had awakened him, and he thought that someone was trying to enter the house. But at noontime? Alvarez shook his head, thinking that the trembling beneath him was simply sleep – until he felt the trembles grow even keener, even sharper, even more threatening.

Outside, he could hear the sound of what seemed to be a good deal of water pouring into a large, rocky bowl. He could hear large chunks of metal smashing onto concrete. He could hear electricity, sputtering, dying, hard on his ears, making the air around him thicker. And screams – he could hear screams on every side of him, screams as the water poured into the bowl, screams as the metal hit the gravel, screams as the electricity sputtered almost endlessly, and then went out.

It was noontime – cool, a little windy, a little humid – Alvarez blinked his eyes – and found that he was staring straight at the sun. The earth was shivering still, shaking; the water was still pouring, splashing on the rim of that faraway bowl; the metal was creaking from its impact on the street. Alvarez blinked again, steeled his stomach as his imagination began to take over.

He could no longer hear the dog barking. He trembled, but did not move.

He was all alone in the house that morning. He thought of his mother, at work; his siblings, in their offices; his friends, in their offices or houses somewhere near – and Isabelle. He thought of Isabelle, and began to tremble within.

The winds grew cooler. Alvarez looked up. His roof was gone. In the sky above swirled all manner and shape of objects: roofs, shingles, glass, metal, people. Alvarez cringed at the sight, fought to close his eyes, but failed. Once or twice, he thought he had ducked, anticipating that something sharp would fall, pierce him, impale him to his bed.

And then he realized that he had only imagined it, and that he was still staring at the grisly parade, and that he was thinking of Isabelle and wondering when something would fall and then he would no longer tremble within because he was thinking of her.

Would she miss him? Where was she? What was she doing? Would she be awake? Maybe if he called her, he could tell her what was happening, and she wouldn’t worry if she didn’t hear from him for a few days.

He trembled as he got to his feet. For some strange reason, he walked to his computer, on the impulse of turning it on so that he could send her a message. He was thinking that he had no money yet to make a long distance call, the phone was outside his room, and the computer was right by. He nearly touched it, until the last shiver of the earth made him collapse onto his bed, and made the computer slide to the floor. There, it shattered, sending sparks of electricity through his carpet.

Alvarez still had his wits; he lifted his feet off the floor and put them immediately on his bed. He was lying down again, facing the sky.

The parade above him had ended, but the screams were just beginning. He had the urge to retch, but with a few more deep breaths, the urge disappeared.

He wanted his computer back. For a moment, he remembered how he had always cared for it, always made sure that it was clean outside and in, always made sure that it had the best operating system and the best devices for his job.

Now, nothing mattered.

The sky was blue above him, with a few gray clouds. He heard himself gasping for breath. He felt a few tears escape his eyes, and roll down his temples. The tears kept coming; he kept gasping.

Somehow, his hearing was growing even more and more sharp. The faraway crash of metal onto concrete soon resolved into the sound of metal folding crazily, onto itself, like the sound a roof makes when it flaps in a strong wind. The water had stopped flowing, but he could hear it gushing forth still, as though the last few drops were coming slowly down from the rim of the giant stone bowl.

And the screams – louder, harder, more definite. Someone had seen something, someone was calling for his son, someone was calling a name, someone was pressed beneath his car, someone was pressed under the weight of her house.

Alvarez tried not to listen – but he could hear the agony, the pleading, the pain – these were no ordinary screams of children in their backyard – these were grown men and women – these were the screams of the many, the dying, the damned -

While the woman he loved was weeping on the other side of the planet, Alvarez was shedding his own tears and staring at the gray sky.

And so she stood up, dusted off her dress, and looked at the sky. She saw the moon shining down on her. Her long black hair, her only pride, molded itself around her, forming a shining black cloak. She melted into the darkness. From that night on, Elysia disappeared and the Assassin took her place.
The Assassin was stoic, silent, and unmoving. She was perfect for doing the dirty jobs. The Dark Lord put her under the charge of Melantha the Dark, his most trusted companion. Unlike the rest of the Witches, Melantha wasn’t instructed to blend into society and sow seeds of hatred. Instead, she traveled from country to country, going back and forth, and watched the action from above. Her job was to survey the land for potential setbacks to the Dark Lord’s plan, people who resisted the subtle work of the Witches, people who shined with so much hope they were affecting the people around them and making them resist, too. Melantha would figure out who the dissenters were. She pointed them out to the Assassin. And, quickly or slowly, depending on how Melantha specified how she would do the job, the Assassin would do what she did best. It was often over before the victims could react.
The Assassin would stand aside, silent, after a killing while Melantha crowed by the sidelines. The Assassin was a creature devoid of emotion. She had to be unfeeling to do her job well. Yet after each deed, regardless of how it went, the Assassin would find drops of water pouring out of her eyes, snaking their way down her cheeks and chin. She didn’t even know what they were. Melantha just laughed and told her they were there to purify her of her sins. But the Assassin didn’t understand what she meant, at all.
Tonight was just another job for the Assassin. Melantha had told her to dispose of the victim’s body completely and only bring the ruby necklace around its neck as proof of its death. As the Assassin stood in the clearing, tears in her eyes, the heart she thought was now made of stone thawed and was engulfed in warmth. Elysia was fighting the Assassin.
Elysia was here now, looking down at the blue-eyed baby, questioning her own motive to kill. She was not a killer; no, not Elysia. Thoughts of obeying the Dark Lord and murdering people in cold blood started drifting off from her mind to be replaced with a gentleness, a sort of tranquil calm in herself that she never knew even existed. Her black cloak crumpled and straightened, and turned back into long, flowing black hair. Her emotionless eyes, that spewed tears without the feelings that accompanied them, blinked and brightened. She felt alive again. The baby stirred in her arms and she gazed at it lovingly, like a mother looking down at her newborn child.
And so, she knew that whatever happened, she would protect this baby at all costs. The baby was so innocent, so untouched, that perhaps this was why the Dark Lord was afraid of it. She couldn’t see why the Dark Lord had ordered her to kill it. All she knew was that the baby had a large role to play in this war. Even an ordinary pawn like her could feel it. Perhaps it was the baby’s inert power to heal and make people feel that pushed the Dark Lord into thinking it was dangerous.
It had saved her, and now it was her turn. It was not a sense of obligation that fueled Elysia as she removed the ruby necklace around the baby’s neck with gentle hands. It wasn’t fear of the Dark Lord that made her fumble as she removed the small ornate black stone that adorned the simple bracelet round her wrist.
It was love. It was the look in the baby’s trusting eyes that pushed Elysia into using the last of her power as a Witch to turn the ruby’s rich red color into milky white. Just as the ruby slowly turned pale, so did Elysia’s black stone. In the end, Elysia was left with a white ruby and her own stone bleached. She kissed them both and snapped them onto her bracelet.
With the baby still in her arms, she ran deeper and deeper into the forest until she felt sure she was as far as she could get from the castle. She tightened the soft cloth wrapped around the baby and carefully placed it among the thickest of the foliage. One of the hunters or miners would surely find it in a few hours, hopefully someone from the other side of the forest.
The baby just looked at her silently, a curious look in its eyes, as she whispered in a hurried voice, “Thank you.” It didn’t cry as she turned around, running back the way she came from, the white ruby now clutched in her hands.
As she reached the clearing, she felt her energy draining and she smiled. Although she was Elysia, she was still a Witch, after all. And now that her stone was white, her life was wasting away with it. But before she died, she had to give the ruby to Melantha or else they would have no proof the baby’s death. She just had to sit and wait. Melantha was probably on her way. Elysia’s eyelids drooped but she fought to keep them open. She didn’t know how long she had stood there, clenching the ruby so hard her knuckles were turning white, before she couldn’t fight it any more. Her eyes closed of their own accord. Her body fell to the ground lifeless. But the white ruby remained in her closed palm.
***
Melantha poked the Assassin’s corpse with a foot and sneered. The body was stiff.
“I do believe she’s dead,” a high-pitched, cultured voice said. It belonged to Melantha’s companion, a 10-year old child, with short bright red hair. The girl kneeled beside the body, her long black cloak splaying on the ground, and touched a pale cheek.
Melantha rolled her eyes. “Yes, Jinx, I can see that.” She had been insulted when the Dark Lord sent the little girl along with her to retrieve the Assassin. As far as she could see, she was strong enough to deal with things on her own. Jinx would just get in the way. But, apparently, the Dark Lord didn’t think so. She could see how he still took the fluke with the Blind Seer a year ago to heart. She had felt her worth go down in his eyes. Even after all the work she’d done the past months, he hadn’t forgotten. Who was she kidding? The Dark Lord never forgot.
“I think the baby killed her.” Jinx touched the Assassin’s long black hair.
Melantha quickly negated Jinx’s statement. “The baby couldn’t have killed her. The Assassin’s powerful…and the baby’s just a baby.” Even as she said the words, she wondered. The baby was supposed to be the Keeper, after all. What if it had indeed killed the Assassin? But she wasn’t about to agree with Jinx.
Melantha got down on her knees and examined the body. With the Assassin’s death came the disappearance of her cloak, obviously because of a loss of power. “There’s no sign of struggle on her face,” she said with a frown. She checked the wrist for her black stone. “Her stone isn’t here.”
“I found it!”
Jinx was crouched on a spot near the body. She was waving a white stone in her hand. “It’s her stone. It’s white and it looks worn out.” Jinx rushed to her side and showed her. “She probably used up all her power fighting the baby.”
Melantha’s eyes widened. She snatched the stone from Jinx. “This is her stone, all right.” She looked at the Assassin’s face, which oddly enough, looked peaceful. “What could have happened here?”
“I have no idea, but first things first. We have to find out if the baby’s still alive.” Jinx was examining the body again. Melantha could only see her back.
Melantha was annoyed at how Jinx had taken charge. She stood up abruptly. “I’m going to look around the forest. Perhaps the baby’s crawling around here somewhere.”
“Not so fast.” Jinx didn’t even look at her but there was a commanding note in her voice. Melantha wanted to punch her. “You said so yourself. It’s just a baby. It probably can’t even crawl yet. Let’s finish looking at the body first.”
Melantha was exasperated. “But if it can kill the Assassin, what’s crawling, right? Or perhaps, someone came along and picked it up.”
Jinx didn’t answer. She was busy with the body, checking the Assassin’s clothes. She examined the Assassin’s right hand. There was a happy cry of “Aha!” Melantha was afraid to look.
“Look, Melantha! It’s the baby’s ruby.” There was a triumphant look on Jinx’ face. She stood up and ran up to Melantha on her still short legs. The ruby was whole but it was pure white, which could only mean one thing.
Melantha was still annoyed but she couldn’t help smiling. The Assassin had died but she had completed her mission, after all. “The Keeper is dead.” There was no way the baby could be alive when her ruby was now white.
Jinx smiled and started dancing around the clearing. “The Keeper’s dead! The Keeper’s dead!”
Melantha wanted to close her eyes. Sometimes, she just wasn’t sure if Jinx was mature or immature for a girl her age.
Jinx jumped up and down in front of Melantha. “Do you think Lord Hadrian would mind if we just left the Assassin’s body behind? I’m not really up to carrying a dead body along with us.”
My thoughts exactly, Melantha thought. Aloud she said, “I think it would be all right…as long as we dispose of the body.” She smiled cruelly. The black stone around her neck flashed red and blue. “That should do it.”
The trees around them had caught fire. “Come on, Jinx, before the whole forest turns to ash.”
Jinx giggled and waved the white ruby for the last time. They raised their hoods simultaneously and melted into the darkness.

Abbey was already a few blocks away and rushing off to class. In her mind, she knew that even if she ran at full speed, she would be unable to cover the length of the football field and climb six flights of stairs to the third floor of her building in two and a half minutes. It was already quite obvious that she would have to do it. Again.

Abbey looked around; surveying the area to ensure that there wasn’t anyone looking at her directly. It wouldn’t work if there was, for some strange reason. If she knew someone was watching, she wouldn’t be able to get into the right frame of mind for it. She then slowed down, closed her eyes and tried to remember every minute detail of the spot where she stood. The myriad images and sensations came to her now in a stream of thought that spontaneously unravelled like the layers of a large onion-the colours and forms, the shapes, the interplay of light and shadow, the feel of the wind against her bare arm, the distant noise of traffic and the sound of birds, the other smells and sensations of the city. It was a process she had come into quite entirely by accident, and over the years, it had been like second nature to her. She had originally thought it up as a way to memorize her lessons. It had turned out to be something much, much more.

With eyes still closed, she started running at full speed towards the building where her class was about to start. The darkness in her mind’s eye receded, revealing a world of ghostly outlines amidst a landscape of colourless forms made of wildly swirling fractal shapes of shifting intensity.

In this maelstrom of chaos, Abbey then focused her desire to get to class on time at a single point–her destination. She then saw herself where she wanted to be, a formless mass made up of wild, squiggly fractal outlines at first, then a definite form, a shape, a texture, a colour; then a consciousness, sensations of the distant hallway, and the distinct knowledge, the feeling of being in the other place. It was the hallway where her classroom was, and for a brief moment, Abbey felt she was literally in two places–standing in the field outside and in the hallway. The fractal shapes resisted. Vigorously at first, because something about what Abbey was doing went against their nature, after all. But Abbey’s will proved to be the stronger force, and the little fractals begin to respond to Abbey’s urgings. The ghostly outline of a hallway begins to coalesce around her. She then senses movement, and a few vaguely human shaped disturbances begin moving through the fractal ether she was currently suspended in. These were the people rounding the corner and sprinting to make the last few metres for the classroom door.

Abbey now remembered to temper her desire and control it. While her classroom was definitely where she wanted to be at the moment, every time she saw herself appearing in plain sight of one of the ethereal shapes she recognised as other people, she would open her eyes and she would be standing right where she was, just a silly girl standing in the middle of the football pitch with her eyes closed. There was no motion, no running, no hallway, nothing. This had happened to her a total of three times ever since she discovered this curious way of getting from one place to the next.

It was of course, these times where she would use a more mundane means of gaining access to the classroom, which would involve knocking on the thick oaken door, disrupting her professor and the rest of the class.

After a brief lecture, where the professor would liken her to a little child, he would grudgingly give her permission to enter his class late, provided that she would sit in the perennially empty front row, much to her embarrassment.

It essentially meant to the class that Ms. Chen, the “genius” of Professor Armand Dubois’ Advanced Number Theory class was the only student to be afforded an exception about the time one is supposed to get into his class. Abbey could almost feel the accusatory glances of her classmates, almost hear their thoughts. And if there was one thing Abbey really didn’t like was all of the attention. It was hard enough just being who she was, having to deal with the thoughts and feelings of other people just made it that much more difficult. Having to walk into class late then, was not one of the things that topped Abbey’s list of things to do this morning.

So she remembered to be careful and shifted her point of view back a few paces to a spot behind the door of the classroom. After a quick scan of the area to ensure no one was around, Abbey opens her eyes. To find herself behind the door in the third floor hallway of the building her class was in. Coming from behind that door, she sat where she always wanted to sit, one row behind the door, and smiled.

A young man sat leaning against the goalposts of the football field. He had stopped there for a moment to rest after running around the field a few times. He saw a young girl stop, close her eyes, lunge forward and disappear in an impossibly bright, but brief flash of light. Too brief perhaps, for most other people to notice. Not for Jean-Marc however. He had always been possessed with a talent for seeing things in more ways than what many thought were possible. What he saw in fact, was the girl shift into a space behind the space we all see, and shift out of it in another location, almost a kilometre away by his reckoning. The location of a good friend’s class, which was, by his watch, about to start. He takes his cellular phone out and slides the keypad out. Punching a key, he makes a call.

“Allo, Angeline, chere?”

“Bonjour! Oui?” a female voice responded. Her tone was warm, pleasant yet strangely distant.

“It’s the Asian girl. I’m sure of it.”

“Je comprends. Merci Jean-Marc.”

He places his phone in its pouch strapped across his left arm. Then he continued his morning run, a look of concern on his face.

Once upon a time
There was a kingdom called the Kingdom of Heaven,
The most beautiful kingdom there was.
And in this peaceful kingdom lived the angels, the children of the gods.
Very beautiful people with large wings that enable them to fly.
They were happy and prosperous and powerful.

The Kingdom of Empyrea was a kingdom that ruled the land, the sea and the skies. Empyrea was a name meant for Heaven and truly it was indeed an appropriate name for such a country. It was magnificent and peaceful, a paradise on Earth with lush green forests and meadows, speckled with colorful wildflowers, common and rare, with seldom a dark cloud in the sky. A pacifist kingdom that would rather discuss a conflict than go into war. A utopia, as one might say.

But there was a secret hidden under all that prosperity and goodness,

A secret that could very much destroy the nation itself.

A power was bestowed to the people of Empyrea. A power that could give birth to kingdoms and countries, civilization and culture. A power that could also fall and annihilate races, destroy and obliterate life. The people were first afraid of this power, that it could soon bring their nation to an end. But it was this power that had brought them harmony and opulence. It was this power that had brought them to the highest echelon of kingdoms.

In the end, however, the people grew arrogant of this power.

There was nothing more than the gods can do.

They had the power to create, to destroy, to give and take away lives. It was like the power of a god. Soon, they willed themselves to grow wings, immaculate white feathers that resembled that of an angel’s, to touch the sky without the need for technology. To fully become gods themselves. And for this, they were punished, not by the gods, but by a human, the King himself, sacrificing his own life to save his kingdom.

A flood ravaged the land and everything was obliterated. Everything.
Only the Royal House stood.
But soon, the gods breathed life into the land
The kingdom flourished once more.

The lands were devastated. The cities were in ruins. The people were dead. Everything was gone. But just like a seemingly dead tree after the winter had gone by, the kingdom flourished once more. The wealth was back, the meadows and forests restored, the rivers and streams flowed. Houses, cities and citadels rebuilt, the people reincarnated. It was renamed. The New Kingdom of Empyrea. The new kingdom of Heaven.

But in order to keep this power,
The new King had to erase the people’s memories of the past,
Removed the wings of their wrongdoings,
Released them from the knowledge of the power they had possessed.

However, the Royal House was still afraid of the power, afraid that the people might remember it and use it once again. Afraid that not only the kingdom would fall into ruins but other lands as well.

A creature was born
To not let history repeat itself.

It was a system created out of magic and science, out of the power bestowed to Empyrea. A system that would pull the kingdom back to its feet, to restore the kingdom back to its golden days. It was a system that would ensure the prosperity of the kingdom for centuries, even millennia, to come. And yet it was also a system that would bring grief to each generation of the Royal House. A system that would ask for a sacrificial lamb in order to nourish itself.

This creature would bear a name
It would earn a title
A curse bestowed to the youngest descendant of the House.
The fate of a young girl.
The ‘treasure’.
That was how it was named.

“Lady Princess, your thoughts run deep.”

Selas raised her gaze from her hands at the baritone and inclined her head in response, not a word escaping her lips.

They were seated inside the regal dining hall, at an oak table that could seat more than a hundred guests. The room itself was large enough to accommodate a thousand. Splendid walls, dressed in bold tapestries, rose to the vaulted ceiling, frescoed with mythical creatures and figures, while a chandelier of a hundred candles hung in midair, the crystal and gold ornaments tinkling softly. Suits of armors, glinting under the flickering candlelight, stood guard at the four sets of doors, as well as on either side of a great marble fireplace behind the head of the table that provided a warm glow inside the room.

However, the chamber, as well as the manor was far from warm and inviting. It was cold, distant and suffocating, a false image of welcome. It was a far cry from convivial but intimidating and daunting. The halls were gloomy; the delicate stone arches, orifices and statues motionless for time immemorial.

The four doors opened with nay a sound and a procession of platters of heavy silver started, bore by servants, looking rather elfish than human. The meal was a great collection of delicacies for an early morning meal: icy bunches of grapes; apples with glistening skins of red, green and gold; bowls of the finest berries, of deep blue and purple and potent scarlet, mingling with the crimson colors of the cherries. Crystal platters held cheese of different kinds, of white and yellow ones, and fresh bread with a sweet aroma.

Water, clear and pure, that came from the cleanest and freshest of springs, was served in glass flutes. And there was wine as well, produced from the most succulent of grapes, fermented for years in wooden barrels. It was a feast fit for an emperor.

And yet, the young princess, waited upon by a female elf, had only eaten little: an apple, cut into small slivers, a slice of white bread with sweet butter.

“You are trying to starve yourself in form of defiance, my dear princess?” the Sorcerer commented, laying his silverware noiselessly on his plate. The expression on his face was apparent, mild temper, eclipsed even more by the shadows created by the flames.

She inclined her head once more, a polite smile gracing her lips. “I am quite full, my Lord Sylvan.”

“You have barely eaten and yet you say you are quite full?” His voice was dark and scathing. “Do not jest, Lady Princess. I cannot have you dead in my palace.”

Her reply was mere silence, only a slight nod of her head as acknowledgment. She as well laid her silver fork on the peacock-jewel china quietly and folded her dainty hands on her lap, averting her gaze to the fleur-de-lis pattern on the linen mantle.

The young Sorcerer rose from his seat, oak scraping against marble, his dark robes rustling softly, and walked over to her. While they would hardly speak over breakfast, except perhaps for an offhanded remark or inquiry, he knew that something was preoccupying her thoughts. He had noticed her lack of appetite, in addition to her listlessness during the meal for past few days. She had become too difficult to please, reverting once more to her behavior when she had first arrived two moons ago.
He stared down at her, his hazel eyes turning golden under the glow of the fire. With one swift motion, he reached out and cupped her chin, forcing her to look his way. But to his disdain, her eyes moved to cast downwards. An annoyed expression crossed his features.

“Please do not be stubborn, Lady Princess.” He was rather ill-tempered that evening. For what reason, he could not understand. Perhaps it was his temper, finally boiling over. “I despise that kind of attitude.”

Selas looked up at him, sapphires clashing against hazels. “Forgive me, my Lord. I do not mean my insolence.”

Her words were spoken without malice, in a voice that was calm and unwavering, and those words had made him retract his hand, release the grip on her chin. She inclined her head to a slight bow, her gaze downcast once more. That was then that he noticed the pink color blossoming against her fair complexion on the spot where he had held her. As if his fingers burned her skin upon contact. His hands closed upon into a fist, his nails digging in his palm, as he returned to his seat.

“Tell me, Lady Princess,” the Sorcerer started, resting his chin on one hand as he leaned against the arm of his seat, as the fingers of his free hand lifted a silverware. “What are you thinking of?”

His imperative voice made her look up, briefly meeting his eyes. There was an inquiring glint in them, her eyes, laced with a momentary uncertainty that disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. What were her thoughts? What were her hesitations? What would be her response? What would be her words?

She opened her mouth, her gaze intent on the clear liquid in her flute. “Nothing, my Lord. I am thinking of nothing.”

He stared at her in dismay, her response rather unsatisfactory and untruthful. Even in the past, she had never responded to him, often refused to answer his inquiries, just as he had never responded to her actions, refusing attachment of any kind.

“Have I not given you everything you needed, Princess?” Once more, his tone was a mixture of vexation and scorn.

“Everything but the one thing that I desire most, my Lord.”

It was a reply that he did not expect, a reply that sent several questions in his mind. He set the silver down once more and pushed away his plate, his appetite completely abandoning him. For words such as these, did she not have any gratitude to him? He pushed himself back to his feet, thoroughly irritated for the evening. His temper had not been pleasant and Selas was not helping it, merely adding more fuel to the fire.

“I have had quite enough for tonight,” he said coolly as he strode back towards one of the doors without a single glance over his shoulder, his indigo cloak trailing behind him. “Perhaps tomorrow night, you may have found your manners once more, Lady Princess.”

And with that, he stepped out of the room, the slamming of the door echoing throughout the vast hall.

Iantha sighed, sitting down on the stony ground. She looked up at the sky above her. From up here, she could see so many stars. The moon was almost full now, and from the light of the moon, she could see the view that surrounded them. Just off the nearby cliff, she could see Sarenin and the forest that surrounded it, places that reminded her of where she had fought before. She had won both her fights against Amalea and Daedalus, but she didn’t know if she could win anymore. Kathel…she had ended up fighting Kathel after all. There was something about the Tuathal warrior that had frightened her ever since his victory over Kalysta. She shivered slightly, hugging herself to keep warm. She wasn’t sure whether it was the cold mountain air that made her shiver, or the thought of fighting Kathel the next day.

“Here,” said a voice from behind her, and she felt a cloak being dropped onto her shoulders. She looked up, seeing Matthias standing there.

“Thanks, Matt,” she said, smiling at her cousin.

“Can I sit here?” asked Matthias, gesturing at the place beside her. She nodded, and Matthias sat down. They sat there for a moment, both of them reliving childhood days and less complicated times before Matthias spoke again.

“So how are things going between…well, you and Li?” he asked.

“All right,” replied Iantha, blushing slightly at the memory, “Li’s really nice, Matt. You don’t have to worry.”

“I know,” said Matthias, “You’re in good hands. It’s not like you to be out here all alone, though. What’s the matter?”

“I’m just thinking…about the match tomorrow,” said Iantha.

“If you’re scared of facing Kathel, I don’t blame you,” said Matthias, “I would be afraid too if he was my opponent. There’s something about him that unnerves me. He has the same arrogance as Kaleb, but there’s something else. To put it simply, if I had to choose between a fight with him and ten rematches with Kaleb, I’d pick Kaleb.”

“You’re not really helping,” said Iantha, hugging her knees.

“Sorry,” said Matthias, placing a hand on her shoulder, “You have to believe in yourself though, Iantha. You’ve made it this far. You’ve made it farther than anyone ever thought you would. Iantha, you’ve made it to the semi-finals. That’s fantastic. You’ve made it farther than twelve other people in the tournament.”

“I don’t think I can win anymore,” said Iantha, looking down, “I wanted to win the tournament for you, Matt, but I don’t…”

“It’s all right,” said Matthias, “It’s all right if you don’t win tomorrow. So long as you tried your best, that’s enough for me and for Astraia. The Tychon clan wrote me by the way. Father wanted me to tell you that both he and Auntie are very proud of your achievements. Even without inheriting the Crimson Wings, you’ve made it this far, Iantha. Astraia is already proud of you.”

“I don’t want to let everyone down,” muttered Iantha.

“But you won’t be,” said Matthias, “We’re proud of you already for reaching this far. Even if you lost, we’d still be proud of you, Iantha. The spirits of the Tychon Clan and of Astraia are with you now. Whatever happens, our spirits will always be with you. So tomorrow, fight and give it your best. Win or lose, we will still be with you.”

Iantha sighed, looking at the ground. After a while, she looked up at Matthias, a smile on her face as she turned to him.

“Thank you,” said Iantha, “I feel better now, Matt.”

“Glad I could help,” said Matthias, patting her shoulder before getting to his feet. “Do you want to come inside or will you be out here for a while.”

“I’ll stay out here a little while longer,” said Iantha, “The stars are beautiful tonight.”

“Suit yourself,” said Matthias, “Just return the cloak to my room when you come back inside.”

“I will,” said Iantha, “See you later.”

Matthias nodded, turning around and heading into the building. Iantha sighed, turning her eyes skyward once again. Tomorrow would come with whatever happened, and she would be ready for it. She closed her eyes, savoring the feel of the wind on her face. Tomorrow would come…whatever happened, tomorrow would come.

Seiji sighed, eating the food in front of him. The food was already cold, but Mikara would not let him leave the infirmary until he was sure that all of his wounds had been attended to. A particular wound that had opened up on his head was beginning to itch under his bandage, and he resisted the urge to raise his hand up and scratch it. He continued to eat, wishing he could have left the infirmary earlier so that he could have dined with the others. It just seemed so boring eating alone, especially since there was no Li or Iantha to tease.

“I thought you were in the infirmary,” said a voice from the door. Seiji looked up, seeing that it was Masami. By the looks of things, she was already dressed for bed. He grinned.

“I got out early,” said Seiji, “I would have left earlier, but Mikara kept fussing with this cut on my head.”

“Did you tell her that you’re head’s so hard you probably didn’t even feel it?” asked Masami with a smile, sitting down beside him at the table.

“I tried, but she wouldn’t listen,” said Seiji, “She seemed hell-bent on bandaging it as soon as possible, and Mikara’s scary when she’s angry.”

“You have no idea,” said Masami, laughing.

“So what brings you here?” asked Seiji, “Missed me?”

“In your dreams,” said Masami, “I came out for a walk and I heard someone in the dining hall, so I decided to see who it was. Obviously, I wasn’t even expecting that it would be you.”

“So you say,” said Seiji.

“Congratulations on the win, by the way,” said Masami, “You’re in the finals. Just one more match and you win the tournament.”

“Yeah,” said Seiji, “The tournament and everything that comes with it.”

“Harumi would become a city, the Knights would build an outpost there, and it would become capital of the region formed around it,” said Masami, “You would become nobility and lead the region, governing Harumi itself as well as Braiden, Astraia, Guozhi, Felisha, Cyprien, Nakine, and Tuathal. You would also get to name the region and would automatically become a member of the King’s Court-the body that governs Sylvaea, meaning you would play a hand in decisions involving the entire country.”

“And that’s if I win my next match,” said Seiji with a sigh, “When we entered this tournament, we all knew what winning meant. But now that I’m so close to it, I realize that it’s a lot more real than we thought it was before. I don’t know…it just seems too much. Even if I do win my next match, I don’t think I’ll be able to take all that responsibility.”

“Hey, you’ll do fine,” said Masami, smiling, “I mean, you’re fair, and you play by the rules most of the time, and when you don’t it’s because the rules stink. You’ll be able to lead no problem if you win the next match.”

“If I did win,” said Seiji, “Would you still be there?”

“Be there?” asked Masami, “Of course, silly. Harumi’s my home and if you did win, it would be where the Knights would build their new headquarters. I’d be teaching there, remember?”

“I mean with me,” said Seiji, “Would you still be there with me?”

“Oh,” said Masami, “Well, of course I would. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Is that all we are?” asked Seiji, looking up at her seriously. Masami flushed a bright pink, looking away at his gaze. Seiji reached up a hand, gently turning her face so that she was facing him.

“Don’t look away from me, Masami,” said Seiji.

“I…” began Masami, “Of course I would remain at your side, Seiji…for as long as you would have me.”

“You didn’t answer my second question,” said Seiji, almost whispering now. Masami felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Since when had he been so close to her. She could practically feel his breath fanning out across her lips now.

“We’re…well, I guess you could say we’re not just friends anymore,” said Masami.

“Then what are we?” asked Seiji, “I love you, Masami, but I don’t know how you feel. You’ve never given me a straight answer.”

“I…” began Masami.

She sighed. Could she afford to do this? Up until now she had refrained from giving Seiji an answer, not sure how things would turn out if she told him the truth. She was sure about her feelings, but she was not entirely sure she was prepared for the consequences of revealing them. Right here with Seiji though, she felt like she was ready.

“I love you too, Seiji,” said Masami, closing the distance between them and pressing her lips to his. After a while, she pulled away, leaning on Seiji’s shoulder. Seiji winced slightly, and she adjusted her head.

“Sorry,” said Masami, “I didn’t know you were injured.”

“It’s all right,” said Seiji, his arm wrapping around her shoulders.

“Have you thought about it yet?” asked Masami.

“About what?” asked Seiji.

“What you would name our region, if you won,” replied Masami, “It needs a good name, since it would be eight villages and not just one anymore.”

Seiji was silent for a while, staring off into the distance before speaking. Finally, he sighed.

“Nozomi,” he replied.

“Hope?” asked Masami, “Yeah, that sounds pretty good.”

“Glad you like it,” said Seiji.

They remained like that for a while, enjoying each other’s company, before both of them bade each other good night and returned to their respective rooms to sleep. Tomorrow, the semi-finals would end, and tomorrow Seiji would know who his opponent for the final round would be.